I walked down to the river with Mr. Kineya and Mr. McFarland this morning. The river is already low, too low for my liking, but I needed to practice casting.
Much to my pleasure the water was still quite cool so of course I waded wet. During the Winter the water does its deed, churning, moving sand and gravel,
filling holes and making new ones, constructing bars of gravel where willows and wildflowers take root. Every year it is the same river, but new as well. For
me that is much of the pleasure of fishing it because there are few fish this low on the river, but it is so very beautiful. Raccoons, parents and kits, swam
the river at its widest place, perhaps meaning to explore the filbert orchard for goodies. A long snake did the same and I wondered why, but the snake could
not tell me no matter how much I implored it.
A huge alder fell during Winter and if there was a fish to be had it would be in the seam between the hole at the tree and the riffle. Indeed! The wild rainbow leapt and tugged and used the current as best it could. It fought well and I brought it to hand, thanked it and told it how beautiful it was, then set it in three inches of calm water, its home and refuge. It staggered a bit, then flared its gills, paused, turned and then rocketed downstream, perhaps back into the safety of the seam. This was a wild rainbow trout and they are precious. This small river has not been cursed with planters for more than a dozen years. The steelhead are coming back bit by bit and maybe the chinook as well. The cutthroat and rainbows are doing their best but there are not many of them, but oh how lovely they are.
The beauty of this sport causes me to hold my breath sometimes.
A huge alder fell during Winter and if there was a fish to be had it would be in the seam between the hole at the tree and the riffle. Indeed! The wild rainbow leapt and tugged and used the current as best it could. It fought well and I brought it to hand, thanked it and told it how beautiful it was, then set it in three inches of calm water, its home and refuge. It staggered a bit, then flared its gills, paused, turned and then rocketed downstream, perhaps back into the safety of the seam. This was a wild rainbow trout and they are precious. This small river has not been cursed with planters for more than a dozen years. The steelhead are coming back bit by bit and maybe the chinook as well. The cutthroat and rainbows are doing their best but there are not many of them, but oh how lovely they are.
The beauty of this sport causes me to hold my breath sometimes.
